


And It Was Work He'd Do

by coconutcluster



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, and i have no soul so ill use it to my advantage dang it, anyway, fatigue, he's very tired and feelin empty but he keeps working, i saw a prompt and i liked it, idk how to tag the triggers?, logan angst? you called?, nah i cried, tw: exhaustion, yeah listen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-08-30 03:23:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16756720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coconutcluster/pseuds/coconutcluster
Summary: There were times Logan got tired. Obviously, of course - there were times everyone got tired, so it wasn’t particularly distressing, or even shocking, despite his being a figment in Thomas’ mind and not a human being with incessant needs; fatigue tended to be a nuisance to him above all else, really, an impediment to his productivity. An inconvenience. Nothing more.But this… this was different.





	And It Was Work He'd Do

There were times Logan got tired. Obviously, of course - there were times everyone got tired, so it wasn’t particularly distressing, or even shocking, despite his being a figment in Thomas’ mind and not a human being with incessant needs; fatigue tended to be a nuisance to him above all else, really, an impediment to his productivity. An inconvenience. Nothing more. 

But this… this was different. 

He’d been sitting at his desk for a few hours, working through Thomas’ various processes - filtering memories, processing sensory stimuli from the day, logging new goals and discarding old ones, and, most importantly, planning out Thomas’ schedule for optimal performance throughout the next day, week, month, or more - but as the clock ticked on above his head (rather loudly, he noted with a twinge of annoyance), something in him started to slow. His hands began to drag over the stacks of papers beside him, sometimes hovering motionless, pen still gripped too tight between his fingers, as if he were clinging to some hope of composure; the steady stream of thoughts that accompanied his every move, the constant analysis of his surroundings, had all but stopped completely, leaving his mind eerily empty; what bothered him most, however, were the…  _ physical  _ side effects. His eyelids were drooping, his shoulders too tense, leg bouncing over and over in the same monotonous song as his heel tapped the floor in its tandem. It was all rather frustrating.

He didn’t need sleep, surely; he’d slept a full eight hours the previous night, not to mention a brief nap after breakfast to maximize performance for the coming afternoon, so… what, then? What was wrong with him?

The grating click of the clock reached his ears again, sending a painful chill down his spine. 

He rolled his shoulders, ridding himself of the spidery tingles branching down his arms, and turned back to the paper before him, trying in vain to blink away the fogginess covering his mind; the words on the page seemed to blur into illegible smudges that remained despite his fervent efforts to focus on them. Minutes passed with him just staring at the paper, before he grabbed it and crumpled it in his fist, tossing it across the room. It thumped pitifully against the foot of his bed frame and fell to the floor as he turned back to his desk. 

Stacks of papers in folders and binders and crisp envelopes sat beside his lamp, ready to be examined and sorted accordingly, but just the sight of them brought something tight to Logan’s chest, something constricting that seemed to curl around his lungs and heart-

He pushed away from his desk suddenly, blinking furiously as tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. He was tired. He was just  _ tired _ , that was it. He had so much work to do, and being sleepy was nothing of importance to deter him from that; he’d work through it as he had so many times before, no problem. No problem. 

No… 

His posture faltered, and he finally felt the true heaviness in his limbs, his eyes, his  _ everything _ . Sitting there, stock still in his chair in the middle of the room, felt so right and so wrong - he felt as if he was floating, yet weighed to the seat like he was a part of its very structure. His eyes traced the room, grazed over the papers stacked on his desk and littered across his floor, and he was struck suddenly with the realization that he’d have to do them all over again; he’d been like… like  _ this  _ for at least an hour now, but he’d ignored it, filling the pages out mindlessly, and they were no doubt messed up in one way or another- everything was inadequate, every word he’d scrawled, every paper he’d filled, every project he’d ‘finished’. He’d have to come back tomorrow and redo them all. The very thought brought pressure back to his eyes, threatening his last shred of clarity with the humiliation of crying over his own vacuous shortcomings. 

He just wanted to sleep. His eyes were so, so heavy - all he wanted was to lay down and curl into a ball and close them forever, alleviate the pressure in his body with the lightness of a dream until he felt he could face his responsibilities again. 

But he knew he couldn’t do that. He was Logic, the mature one, the sensible one, reliable and efficient, and he had work to finish; to leave it deficient in effort and quality would be an offense he couldn’t excuse to himself or the others,  _ especially  _ not Thomas, so it was work he’d do, until… well. Until he couldn’t. 

And so he planted his feet on the floor and pulled forward, tugging his chair and the sludge of his limbs with it, all the way to back to the confines of his desk. He ignored the warm track of a tear rolling down his face, ignored the trembling in his wrists, the hitches in his breathing, the emptiness in his chest and mind. 

He ignored it all, picked up his pen, and kept writing.


End file.
